I really don't like choosing a side when my friends get into a fight. I absolutely hate drama, but today I couldn't avoid it. Jane slapped John right across the face, but I stood up and moved on.
The next morning there was a bloodbath on the street, and I was sitting in John's room with nothing to do but stare at the wall. I was a bit surprised. He was greasy and hairy, and he resembled a dirty old dog with a hole in his nose. His eyes, too, were bloodshot and dull. He had a deep scar on the back of his head, and it was covered with a thick bandage of black gray hair. He was wearing a crisp red shirt with the collar down and the sleeves rolled up. I remembered seeing a photograph of him in New York, in a picture taken a few years earlier when he was twenty-one. He had appeared in a picture taken by one of my friends, and I had seen him now a few times in the city.
It was one of those pictures where you could see from the front that he had been fighting an old enemy: the Big Foot. But the image had been taken earlier and had been altered.
The stain was not quite as deep as it was on John's face when he died, but the old scar still showed through.